


the way it was

by Adamarks, theflyingpeach



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst?, Blood, Break Up, Car Accidents, Car Sex, Getting Back Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sorta Car Sex, brief descriptions of blood & injury, kicked us a few times, this fic dragged us through hell and back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adamarks/pseuds/Adamarks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theflyingpeach/pseuds/theflyingpeach
Summary: Simon and Baz have been broken up for nearly a year when seemingly out of the blue Baz receives a text at two a.m. Is this  finally the end or a new beginning?Can they go back to the way it was?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 30
Kudos: 258





	the way it was

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was started back in december and then we tossed it aside until last week. Since then it has been through many unbearable hours of revisions and basically an entire rewrite. it was originally inspired by Mika's Tomorrow and has since picked up a The Way It Was vibe (by the killers), hence the title. 
> 
> this is not set within the world of carry on/wayward son
> 
> theflyingpeach wrote Baz's POV  
> Adamarks wrote Simon's POV
> 
> you can find us on tumblr here:
> 
> [theflyingpeach](https://theflyingpeach.tumblr.com/)  
> [Adamarks](https://adamarks.tumblr.com/)

**BAZ**

**(00:54)** Hey

I’ve been staring at that one word on my screen for five minutes. Surely he’s texted the wrong number. It’s the only possible explanation for Simon Snow’s name to have appeared on my phone at this hour. 

I should’ve deleted his number. It’d be easier to ignore. I move to set my mobile back down—

**(01:00)** Wyd

I pull the screen back to my face. I wouldn’t put it past him to have made the same mistake twice. Or he’s drunk.

**(01:10)** Sorry youre probably sleeping

Three texts in a row makes me sit up fully in bed and I—

**(01:11)** _ No I’m not _

Why did I respond.  _ And so quickly.  _ I’m an idiot. 

**(01:11)** Yeah?

His immediate response makes me jump. Everything feels too hot. Prickly. 

I want to throw my mobile. 

I want to save these messages and read over them again like I’ve done with all of our past ones. I don’t know when I’ll hear from him again.

I shouldn’t have responded.

**(01:11)** _ Obviously  _

But I do it again, anyway. 

**(01:12)** Can’t sleep?

The pounding in my chest stutters into a sharp stabbing pain. He knows I have trouble sleeping; he used to lie beside me all night. I’d watch him. Sometimes he’d wake up and reach for me.

I look over at the side of the bed I don’t sleep on anymore. My hand is hovering over the pillow (his pillow). I jerk it away.

It’s often that the hours I do sleep, I wake up with his pillow wrapped in my arms and my face pressed under it. 

That’s how I found myself every morning after he stayed over, with my face under his shoulder, wedged beneath his back.  _ I wanted to bury myself in him. _

The pillow doesn’t smell like him anymore.

**(01:18)** _ I sleep fine.  _

I sleep even less now.

**(01:19)** Yep 

**(01:20)** I cant 

**(01:23)** How've you been

Does he think we’re friends? I thought we were friends. I thought we were—

**(01:24)** _ Fine.  _

**(01:25)** Yeah?

No.

**(01:25)** That’s good

**(01:25)** Wyd

**(01:26)** _ Sleeping.  _

**(01:26)** Hm

**(01:26)** Is that so 

I can’t tell if he’s teasing me. I don’t want him to tease me. I want him to fall to his knees and beg for me back. I want him to show up at my window in the pouring rain with a handful of rocks and a boom box, blaring shitty overdone love songs.

I want to know what he wants.

**(01:30)** _ what do you want snow _

**(01:31)** Wanted to talk to you 

I feel my head throb.

**(01:31)** _ That’s not what you wanted 7 months ago. _

No, not my head...

**(01:33)** I’m sorry

It’s my too soft heart throbbing. Suddenly I want to apologize, too, for whatever I did that made him dump me.

I should say sorry.

**(01:40)** _ Okay  _

**(01:41)** I wanted to talk to you tonight 

**(01:44)** _ Then use your words, Snow. _

**(01:44)** Call me Simon 

_ Simon.  _ Simon, Simon, Simon. All I do is say your name, over and over—

**(01:45)** Please 

**(01:45)** _ Simon _

**(01:48)** _ What do you want to talk about at 2am on a Wednesday? _

**(01:49)** It’s only 1:49 :P

I squeeze my phone in an attempt to stop myself from actually chucking it. He thinks this okay, coming back after seven months of radio silence. After several months of distance, even before that.

It’s okay,  _ it’s always okay if it’s you. _

**(01:51)** _ Yes, my phone has a functioning clock. _

**(01:54)** You bored?

**(01:55)** _ No, snow, I’m a glowing socialite at this hour. _

**(02:03)** Wanna do something?

I immediately look at the time in the corner of my screen. It  _ is  _ two in the morning now. This is...Simon Snow is ringing me for a late night rendezvous after almost a year of being broken up. My stomach drops.

This is a booty call.

I touch my face. I haven’t shaved in a week. 

I stare at the blinking cursor in the text box.

I type ‘yes’. I delete it.

I type ‘no’. I delete it.

I type ‘No, I’m weak and wounded, Simon Snow’. I delete it.

I type ‘I’m weak, Simon’. I delete it.

I type—

**(02:08)** _ yes _

I get up and rush to the bathroom to freshen up. My hands are shaking too much to shave. 

**(02:09)** Pick me up?

I wonder what constitutes as being overdressed for a 2 a.m. shag with your ex. I could go for something casual. Something that says,  _ Why no, I don't care what you think. I never have. _

I eye a pair of trackies he'd forgotten the last time he was here. When he came to take all of his things. I wear them sometimes, when I'm cold. If I wore them tonight that might come off as desperate. Hopeful. Hopeful for...for what? A second chance? An actual conversation?

I  _ am  _ desperate. I'm not feeling too hopeful.

**(02:24)** _ Have you really still not gotten your license? _

**(02:26)** I did. Don’t have a car take the tube to work

Of course.

**(02:26)** _ Do you still live at the same address? _

I know that he still lives with Bunce, because I’m still friends with Bunce and I visit regularly when I know he won’t be there. 

**(02:27)** Yeah

**(02:29)** I’m excited to see you :)

I stare at the smiley face. Knowing Snow this entire escapade is completely impulsive. He doesn't have the foresight to think about tomorrow. I doubt he's even thinking about what this might do to me. Seven months  _ is  _ an adequate amount of time to move on, but…

But the truth is I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving Simon, even when he’s become a stranger to me.

I skim my hands over the shirts hanging in my closet. I should make sure he doesn't forget me so easily again.

I reach for a cornflower blue (like his eyes) button down. It's Simon's favourite on me; anytime I’d wear it he’d run his fingers along the seams. 

It’s silky to the touch and I want him to remember me like this: soft and transparent.

**(02:35)** _ I’m on my way, don’t leave me waiting in a tow away zone. _

I would wait all night.

-

I see Simon pacing along the curb in front of his flat and immediately think to drive directly past him. I could speed by, not sparing him a glance and leave him standing stupid to trail after my taillights. He deserves it.

My foot hovers between the gas and brake pedals. I catch his eye through the windshield. 

He looks stupid, because he looks surprised. Like I wouldn’t drop everything and come the moment he beckoned. Like he doesn’t know he’s Simon  _ bloody  _ Snow and I’m just a fool.

I’ve thought of this moment relentlessly: where I see Snow again and make him hurt. Sometimes, in my mind, I find us crossing paths at the market. He’s trying to decide the difference between sharp and mild cheddar. I’ve come for a pack of seltzer after a hot date, where I spent the night with someone new laughing over exotic dishes and I need to cleanse my palate, and  _ there’s Simon Snow _ . He looks up from his cheese, one in each hand, and I’m wearing  _ cornflower blue _ . I like to think I’d walk right past him. I wouldn’t even look him in the eye. In my wildest dreams he drops the cheese.

My foot presses over the brake. I allow the car to roll past him, just a little, before I park. Just far enough that he has to come to me.

  
  


**Simon**

It’s Baz. 

It’s  _ Baz _ . 

He’s here. He came. 

_ It’s Baz.  _

I’ve been pacing on the pavement for twenty minutes waiting for him. I didn’t really think he’d show up. Or maybe I did, but I was afraid that maybe he’d realise he was making a mistake and drive away. Or maybe he’d, like, toss rotting fruit out at me and keep driving. (I wouldn’t put it past him.) Or maybe he’d… 

Or maybe… 

He’s here. 

He came. 

It’s been months since I’ve seen him. Penny occasionally tells me how he’s been if I ask. I try not to ask, though. It feels like a knife getting twisted around in my heart still. 

I practically run to his car and open the door. I don’t get in, though.

He’s so beautiful. He’s always beautiful. He’s the most gorgeous thing…

He’s wearing my favourite shirt of his. It’s a light blue see-through button down. I always loved how soft it was.

It’s the shirt he was wearing the first time we kissed. 

My heart squeezes. I still remember our first kiss with absolute clarity. It felt right. It felt like we’d solved something. 

And then it—

Then I started pulling. And he started pushing. 

And I ran away. 

Now, here he sits, in that shirt and nice jeans at two in the morning. And here I stand, in my ratty sweatshirt. I wore the jeans he used to like, though. 

Still, I feel underdressed. Was he expecting us to go out or something? I just wanted to see him. Talk.

Apologise. 

Tell him—

I didn’t have anything special to do in mind. Just see him. I missed him.

_ I missed you.  _

My chest aches. 

“Hi.”

**BAZ**

“Hi,” he says, but doesn't make a move to get in. He’s probably regretting this, like he regretted the past two years we were together.

_ Why am I here?  _

Snow is wearing his best pair of jeans. Not particularly nice, but snug and low on his hips. Tight at the tops of his thighs.

_ Why am I here? Because I’m starved and Simon is on the menu. _

I should say something. I should say hi back. I turn to look out towards the road and grip the wheel. 

“Usually people get into the car they’ve requested come pick them up.” 

  
  


**Simon**

I drop my ass into the seat so quickly I hit my head on the frame. I hold my head and look at him. 

It’s fucking frigid in his car. He’s not wearing a jacket; there’s no way he’s not freezing his tits off right now. I look down at my sweatshirt. He used to wear it a lot, before. (He stretched it to hell. His arms are longer than mine.) 

I look back at him. 

“Aren’t you cold?”

  
  


**BAZ**

I’m freezing. The drive over here isn’t long enough for my old car to heat up properly and a jacket would’ve ruined the look I’m going for.

“No,” I say.

I want to look at him, because I haven’t looked at him in months. Not that his face ever leaves me. Simon is all I think about, even when keeping busy at work. (Distractions are futile, I've never been able to pull that method from the Simon Snow handbook.)

Bunce stopped updating me on his life only a few weeks after we split. I had been at their flat one evening, and Bunce was telling me about a new study she was working on. I was peering over her shoulder from the opposite sofa, trying to see inside Snow's open bedroom door (looking for details Bunce might purposefully leave out: empty cider cans, a picture of me he sobs over, evidence of a  _ girlfriend _ …). She'd stopped speaking abruptly and screwed her face up.

_ "Basil, when is the last time you washed that shirt?" _

I'd been wearing the wrinkled shirt in question for three days. I didn't answer immediately and she'd followed my gaze. Later, on her way to the kitchen, she closed his door. She never brought him up again.

It's fine. The last thing I want to hear about is how he finally found his  _ perfect  _ Hallmark girl to settle down with in his  _ perfect  _ gingerbread cottage and flood the planet with  _ perfect _ slobbering children, with their  _ perfect  _ curls and blue eyes…

I think that’s why he left me. I don’t  _ know _ why he left me.

He stayed long enough, but Snow is like a bloody lapdog. He does everything because he thinks he has to.

That's why he’s next to me now. He initiated, now he has to follow through.

I finally let myself look at him, because I've missed him and because he’s still got the bloody door open in the dead of winter.

“Summer isn’t broaching in the next ten minutes, Snow.” I can't look directly at his face yet, so I’m looking at his hand on the door. He might be thinking of getting back out.

He makes a sort of grunt before he says “oh” and slams the door hard enough I’m sure the entire street felt it.

He’s so warm. I can feel his heat from across the small space between us.

He’s got an arm resting next to mine on the armrest. I want to pull away. I want to push my arm against his.

  
  


**Simon**

I can see our breaths. My pinky is barely touching his; I can  _ tell  _ he’s freezing. 

Is it weird to give him my sweatshirt? I want to. 

I can’t do much for him anymore, but I can do this. 

I can make him warm, at least. 

I take off my sweatshirt and dump it on his lap. I’ll be fine in just a t-shirt. I run hot. 

“Here.”

  
  


**BAZ**

I look at his red sweatshirt crumpled in my lap. It’s rather plain and hideously stained, but it’s been stretched out lovingly over the years he’s owned it. I used to wear it in the winter around his flat: on the sofa during movie nights, when Simon would leave the windows open because he was always too hot. It's my favourite.

Sweet Elizabeth, it smells like him. My entire car is going to smell like him: smoked meat and fresh breakfast buns.

Of course he would try and offer me his warmth.  _ He  _ dumped  _ me  _ and still has to try and be the good guy. Does he understand what he's giving me? What it means? Not that I've ever told him, but some things like this shouldn't have to be explained. His sweatshirt and my button down, well, they're all about memory.

I don't even think he's noticed what I'm wearing, or maybe he has and he's just forgotten. The longer I have him next to me, the more outlandish I feel wearing the shirt I shared my first kiss with him in. 

I thought I wanted to be difficult to forget, but what I really want is for him to remember a time when he ached for me. He stopped touching me months before he left; what made me think he would want me like that tonight? 

I'm beginning to think tonight might be about closure.

I drop his sweatshirt into the backseat and put the car into drive.

“I can’t believe you still hold onto that ratty thing,” I say. I hope he leaves it with me.

  
  


**Simon**

Well now we’re  _ both _ fucking cold. 

I’d apparently forgotten that he was the most contrary pain in the ass I’d ever met. 

(I didn’t forget. I missed it like hell.) 

(I love it.) 

I kinda want to reach back and grab it if he’s not gonna use it. This whole thing feels like it’s made of egg shells, though. It might break if I do something wrong. 

I know my therapist said telling him everything was a good idea, but I don’t think she meant like this. I’m pretty sure she meant in a letter, or asking him out to coffee. 

I grew the balls to text him at one in the morning, though. So a two a.m. awkward meet up it is. 

I’m staring at him. Which is per usual, I guess. If he’s around I’m staring at him, it’s just how the cookie crumbles. 

God, I missed him. I wish I could turn on the light to see him better. I wish I could kiss his cheek like I used to when he drove. I wish I could hold his hand. 

I wish I could hug him. 

I wish I could sleep next to him again. 

I can talk to him though, right? That’s what he agreed to do: talk. What do I say to him, though? I can hardly break into my spiel out of nowhere. Well, I  _ could, _ but, fuck, I’m not mentally prepared yet. 

I just need to break the ice. 

I don’t know what his response is going to be. He probably hates me at this point. He might’ve moved on by now. Penelope didn’t tell me, but maybe. 

I picture Baz happy with some rich bloke who’s got his life together. My stomach twists in a weird mix of jealousy and dejection. Talk about a preemptive kick to the nuts.

No, no that doesn’t matter. His response isn’t what’s important. What matters is that I get everything off my chest. That I tell him the truth. 

But first, I have to break the ice. For my own sanity. 

“Where're we going?” 

  
  


**BAZ**

When Simon and I first got together he really liked my car and I really liked him. He would linger before getting in, graze his fingers over the polish of the door. Roll down all the windows, grip my thigh and smile when I drove. 

He didn’t have his license (at  _ twenty-three _ years old) and I knew he’d never ask, so one day I took him to a place outside the city and asked him if he wanted to give it a try. 

The look on his face…

It became a thing. It became a place. I would take us out to those forgotten twining roads and we would make them remember us: Simon driving too fast, the music awful and loud, Simon pushing me back into the hood, Simon’s hands fisted in my hair, his mouth hot over mine, leather seats catching at our skin, stars high, backs against the windshield, his head on my chest—

I should’ve known when we started coming less and less. I mean, I knew. I just didn’t want to look. 

I still really like him. I want him to smile with me one more time, even if I can’t see it in the dark. There’s no lights where we’re going. We don’t need them.

“The countryside,” I tell him.

  
  


**Simon**

“Oh,” my voice cracks a little. 

We’re going to our spot. Our Spot. 

He’s taking us to Our Spot. 

Fuck, the shirt, the woods, my sweatshirt, his car. This is all starting to feel like some weird rehashing of before everything went to shit. 

It’s like the universe is giving me a second chance and daring me to fuck it up again. 

I blow out a long breath. 

_ It’s not about fucking it up, _ I tell myself.  _ It’s about being honest.  _

It’ll be okay. 

  
  


**BAZ**

We’ve been on the road for half an hour and we still have a ways to go. The trip seemed shorter when we were happy; seemed not long enough. Did I make him unhappy?

In the end that's what it felt like. I don't know what provoked it, maybe I needed him too much. We stopped bickering the fun way and started fighting. I said cruel things and he got loud. And then we stopped fighting when it turned tiring. Stopped talking. Most days he looked right through me. Everything passed over him, like I wasn't there. Until I would reach for him and then he couldn't get away quick enough.

In the end, I realised Simon was gone long before he left.

I’ve got the stereo turned up now. It’s loud enough that talking would mean raising our voices, but low enough that the wind chops up every chorus.

The city lights are dancing in the rearview mirror with each jostle of the car as the road gets rougher, less traveled. 

The only upside of ending these trips is fucking up my car less. I should’ve gotten a Jeep. I think Simon would like that. I think he would look fine in something made for a tumble.

He's tapping his fingers against the base of the window. I can tell he wants to roll it down. He looks lovely like this. The moon is caught in his eye and glows over his skin, making his moles stand out darker than when he's in the sun. I used to think of him that way, like the sun. He fits just as well here in the shadows.

A sharp bump knocks my arm fully against his. I leave it there. Just one touch and it’s like he’s melting me to the bone. My palms are starting to sweat. I don’t know if this is okay.

I focus on the headlights cutting through the dark. The only other glances I steal are of the city lights in the rearview mirror, slowly fading, being swallowed up.

  
  


**Simon**

Our arms bumped together and he hasn’t moved. 

I want to hold his hand. I think more than anything, I miss little things like that. Holding his hand, resting my head on his chest to hear his heartbeat, nose kisses… 

I press against his shoulder even more. If I look like a moron leaning so much on the console, so be it.

I think about wrapping my pinky around his. My finger twitches. His hands are still cold, despite the heat blasting from the vents. I curl my hand into a fist to curb the impulse. 

Our skin rubs against together with each bump in the road. If I could melt into him, I would. I’d fuse our bones together.

  
  


**BAZ**

The rest of the drive Simon keeps his upper body leaned against the entire length of mine. He’s nearly pushed me off the edge of the console, but I don’t say anything. I haven’t had him so close in so long.

This feels far more intimate than what I was prepared for, than what I thought he would allow. It's exactly what I wouldn't let myself hope for.

He didn’t touch me for months before he left. I haven’t touched anyone else, since. I thought about it. There were a few weeks where I wanted nothing more than to take apart every man that showed any resemblance to Snow. Instead I clung to every aching memory he left behind. 

I wonder if his tenderness is out of old habit. All of tonight is a sick replay of the past.

We breach a thick of trees to a clearing where the road turns to dust. Our tire treads are long gone now. I don't know where to follow, but I want to give him this before I can never give him anything again.

I park away from the city, under the stars, for the last time. 

  
  


**Simon**

“Do you want to drive?” Baz asks me.

My mouth drops open. 

I… is he…  _ really? _

“I… y—…  _ really?” _

  
  


**BAZ**

“Are you trying to catch flies?” I ask. 

I step out of the car to make room for him behind the wheel.

  
  


**Simon**

I hoist myself over the console and plop down into the driver’s seat. I run my hands over the steering wheel. 

I’ve always loved Baz’s car. Before we were ever dating I was dead jealous of it. It’s a sliver 1971 Benz and it rides like a dream. Every time I drove it I felt like Robert De Niro in that film from the nineties. 

I think Baz could tell when I needed to come out and drive it. My skin would be itchy, and I’d be short and miserable and angry. He’d take me out here and give me the keys. I felt free. Like the dust we would kick up could scrub off my soul.

I know I went too fast. I was too reckless. I fucked up the paint job too many times to keep track of. I’d scare Baz. I didn’t care; I just wanted the rush. The only thing I cared about was feeling  _ alive. _

It was a shit, short-term fix for feeling like I wanted to die.

I’ve gotten better since he’s been gone. I’ve been trying for me again. I’m learning that I don’t need to be dangerous to feel alive. My therapist says I’m making progress. Penny’s proud of me. 

I’m proud of me, I think. 

I would try for him too. I’d talk this time. I’d try to tell him I was scared, instead of just pushing him away. I hurt him, though. I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to try again. 

He gets back into the car and puts on his seat belt. He’s expecting me to drive like I used to. 

I don’t want to. 

_ I’ll go slow, because I want to treasure this chance to be with you _ .

_ I want to treasure you.  _

**BAZ**

I feel like we’re part of a funeral procession. Snow is driving us towards the  _ end _ -end at a fuck-all rotting snails pace. I wish he’d just slam his foot on the gas and take us recklessly like he used to. Fuck indulgence, this savouring is almost worse. 

Why did I want to remember what I'll never have again? 

I feel stupid having put my seat belt on. The only danger ahead is heartbreak. 

He’s so relaxed right now, not a care in the world to crease his brow. Good to know he’s really got nothing vested in this. 

Still…

Simon is as handsome as ever. I think he’s been working out. His arms and shoulders are bulging under his shirt. Everything about him is marginally thicker, sharper. Just as fit as when I first met him. Later, when his edges had gone soft, he was still comely. I thought he'd looked loved, domestic, settled. 

I wonder now if it was just his misery showing. 

I can’t stop staring at his hands, loose around the steering wheel. Wide and brutal, like how they used to hold me down, pull me in. He keeps spreading his fingers apart, slowly rubbing at the leather grip. It makes something white hot unfurl in my gut. 

Snow stretches an arm to wrap around the back of my seat. Even when the car was tail spinning his arm would be around me. I thought it was where I belonged. I thought he'd never let go of me.

He licks his lips and looks over at me.

He's awful. I kiss him.

  
  


**Simon**

_ Baz is kissing me.  _

Baz is kissing me! He’s kissing me. I’m kissing Baz. 

I take my hand off of his seat and cradle the back of his head. My brain feels like it’s short circuiting. There’s the click of a seat belt being undone. Both of my hands come to his face. I hear the engine rev but that seems distant and unimportant. Everything is unimportant right now compared to Baz’s lips. 

Baz starts crawling over the console and into my lap. I try to gather him up in my arms as best as I can. I can’t remember the last time we kissed, the last time I held him, the last time—

It happens all at once. 

I hear it happen before I feel it: glass shattering and steel crunching. I think blindly to put my arm out across Baz's seat and catch him, but he's in my lap. He's hitting the roof. His face is coming back. My head snaps forward, backwards. I taste iron. 

Everything goes black. 

When everything comes back, I’m looking at the roof. There’s groaning- I think it’s me. The world tilts. I blink to right it. My mouth hurts like a bitch. I try to turn my head to look for Baz, but my neck is stiff. There’s a sharp pain every time I move. I muscle through it and turn to see the door open. Baz is lying on the grass, moaning. 

I unbuckle my seat belt and stumble out of the car. Baz is holding his nose and rolling back and forth. He’s covered in blood.

“Fuck, Baz,” I say. For some reason I have a lisp. “Are you okay?” I notice a gap in my mouth when I talk. “I… think I lost a tooth.”

“Here,” he moans. He picks something small from his face and chucks it at me. It lands at my feet and I squint at it. I think it’s my tooth. I push my tongue into the gap and blood gushes out. 

I spit into the grass and shove my tooth into my pocket. I walk over to Baz. His eyes are watery. He’s glaring at me. 

“...Whoops,” I say. 

“You’re a menace,” he says. Baz scrunches his eyes closed and sits up. He drops his head forward, pinching his nose. 

“Is it broken?” I ask. 

“You smashed it with your moon-sized forehead,” he says. “What do you  _ think?” _

I sit cross-legged in front of him and spit some more blood into the dirt. My head throbs. “Lemme see,” I say. 

Baz glares at me again. He sighs and drops his hands. There’s a burning down my neck when I bend to look.

It’s a scene from hell. His nose is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. There’s a gash on the bridge of his nose. (Must’ve been where my tooth was stuck.) Blood is gushing from his nostrils. His shirt is ruined. 

“Oh fuck,” I say. “Uh—“ I bring my hand up to touch it and decide against it at the last second. “Yeah, that’s broken.”

Baz’s face is completely blank, his eyes fixed solidly on my mouth. I’m sure I look like shit too. He blinks once, twice.

And then Baz starts laughing. 

And laughing, and laughing. Blood splurts out of his nose and hits me in the face. 

“Ow, fuck,” he says and hunches over. He keeps laughing, he sounds half hysterical. 

Because this whole situation is ridiculous. 

I start chuckling. He’s cackling like a weirdo. Blood is snorting out of his nose. It looks absolutely disgusting.

“Bloody hell,” I say. 

Baz rubs blood from his upper lip. “Bloody, alright,” he says. 

I laugh harder and clutch my stomach. Baz doubles over onto my lap. He sounds half pained. I lay my head on his back and feel his laughter under my cheek. 

_ I’m so happy I texted him tonight.  _

“We suck at this,” I say and lift my head. My stomach hurts. My face is wet. I sound like a fucking idiot. 

Baz looks up at me. There’s streaks of tears on his face. I love him. 

“You’re missing a tooth,” he snickers. 

“Your nose is fucked,” I wheeze. 

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” He says. He’s still laughing, but there’s an underlying sadness to it. 

I touch his knee. “Maybe.” 

_ Maybe not in the way we thought we were, though.  _

He wipes at his eyes and smears blood all over his face. He winces when his hand accidentally bumps his nose. I reach forward and wipe some blood off his chin. 

“Did you bring your phone?” I ask. I didn’t bring mine tonight. Or my wallet. Baz nods, but he’s not looking at me. 

When I stand, I hold my hands out for him. He takes them and I pull him up. I expect him to immediately let go, but he doesn’t. His thumbs brush over the backs of my hands. 

_ Yeah, maybe we’re not so fucked.  _

He sighs and drops my hands, still not looking at me. He turns away and pulls out his phone. 

“I’ll call a tow,” he says, “unless you need an ambulance?”

I should probably go look at the car. 

“Won’t die of a broken tooth,” I call over my shoulder. 

“I’d say it’s more than broken,” Baz mutters. 

We fucked the Benz up well and good. It was a head on collision and the boulder we ran into won by a landslide. I pat it sadly. I loved this car. 

When Baz is done, I’m leaning against the side of the boot wiping blood off my face with my t-shirt. There’s blood on my trousers too. I think my shoes and sweatshirt are the only things escaping tonight without being completely ruined. 

I look up at him as he walks back to the car. I raise my eyebrows at him. 

_ Well?  _

Baz only spares me a glance. 

“Someone should be here in the next hour or so,” he says. He sounds closed off. Something in me sinks. I thought we’d finally broken the ice. 

Baz is looking sadly at the wreckage. He wipes at his face with his shirt and kicks the front tire. 

“I just had the finish redone.”

I sheepishly look away. “Sorry,” I mumble. 

When I look back, Baz is uselessly smearing blood with his flimsy shirt. The material isn’t exactly absorbent. I go over and offer the bottom of my shirt instead. 

He looks at it and turns away. 

“It’s fine,” he says. He goes and sits on the hillside. He hugs his arms around himself. I dig around in the Benz and fish my sweatshirt out of the backseat. I toss it on his lap. 

“Actually wear it this time,” I say. I sit down next to him. There’s enough space between us that we won’t touch unless he wants us to.

He gives me a pissy look and proceeds to wipe off his face with my sweatshirt  _ instead  _ of putting it on. __

“It’s red. It’s not like you’ll notice the stain.” 

I huff. I’m pretty sure he’ll die if he ever decides to not act like a cock. He hugs the sweatshirt to his chest. 

We lapse into silence. Baz is picking at the fabric and staring off into the distance. His teeth worry at his lip. His nose is going to come back crooked as shit. Dried blood is all over him: smeared on his hands, crusting on his nose and lips, matted in his hair. 

I can’t believe this is real. 

I can’t believe I get to be here with him. 

I can’t believe he came. 

My own voice breaks the quiet. "You look nice tonight," I say. 

Baz snorts and immediately winces. 

“Keep your day job,” he says. “Comedy doesn’t suit you.”

I roll my eyes and snort. "Fuck off." 

I look up at the night sky. 

"You do,” I say. “You look good." 

Baz runs a hand through his hair and ruffles it. 

“So do you,” he says. “Really good.” He clears his throat. 

Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. 

I reach my hand up and carefully tuck some hair behind Baz’s ear. I want to see his face better. 

He turns into the touch and looks at me. 

_ Thank god,  _ I think. 

I scoot towards him until our sides are pressed flush. He’s breathing through his mouth and leaning towards me. His eyes flick to my lips. 

I kiss him. 

This time we don’t almost die. 

Baz presses into the kiss and then jerks back. 

“Goddammit,” he mutters, hand on his nose. I smile and lean against him. The kiss was bloody, kind of gross. 

I loved it. 

I missed kissing him. 

I tongue at my gum. “I bet I can whistle really well now,” I say. 

Baz rolls his eyes. “Good to know exactly what you’re thinking about.”

“I’m actually thinking that I missed you,” I say quietly. I look out at the road. The grass is wet and soaking my jeans. “And my butt is getting cold.” 

“I missed you too.”

I whip my head towards him.  _ Fuck, my neck.  _

“You did?”

“Why else would I be here,” he snaps. He’s not looking at me. 

I don’t know what to say.

“I dunno,” I whisper. I put my arm around him and rub him up and down. Baz tenses at first, but then he leans into it. He feels like an ice cube.

I hold him a little tighter. 

“Why did you ask me to come out?”

My stomach flips. I’m not sure I’m ready to spill my guts yet. 

“I wanted to see you,” I say. It’s true, just not the whole truth. “To know you were alright.” 

“Oh,” Baz says. He sounds disappointed. 

“Hm?” Somehow, that one syllable sounds wobbly. 

“Nothing.” He pulls away and goes to the car. 

“Baz—“ I get up and jog after him. 

_ Fuck. Why didn’t I— fuck.  _

Baz is standing there staring dismally at the airbag. He crosses his arms over the roof and drops his head into them. 

“What are we doing?” He asks. It’s muffled; he sounds tired. 

I stare at the back of his head. I’m nervous. I feel sick. 

I lean back against the car, next to him. 

“Waiting for a tow truck,” I say. I sigh and press my hands to my eyes. “Sorry.” 

_ Why is this so hard? _

“Yes,  _ I _ called the tow,” he says, bitterly. 

I run a shaky hand through my hair.  __

I gather up my mental list of things I need to say. 

I open up my mouth. 

I ask the sky for some courage. 

And I tell Baz what I came here to say. 

  
  


**BAZ**

"I'm sorry for being a shit boyfriend," were not the words I expected Simon to say. I look up at him. He's looking at the sky.    
  


"And for not asking what you wanted," he continues. "My therapist says I was projecting feelings of inadequacy onto you," he makes quotes with his fingers when he says 'projecting' and 'inadequacy'. He drags a hand through his curls and takes a deep breath. He looks at me and then away. 

"I still love you," he swallows, "I'm sorry I never told you." 

I immediately have the urge to cover his mouth. I can't bear to hear it. 

I lean in and wait for him to say more. 

"I'm not expecting you to take me back or something. I just… I just wanted to apologize." 

I don't want an apology, I want him to love me.

He  _ does  _ love me, but that isn't enough.    
  


His eyes are squeezed shut.

I want him to look at me.

I want him to let me look at him.

_ Inadequate. _

I reach out to touch his arm. "I never said it, either." I say. Because it's not about who is and isn't a fuck up, because we both are. 

Simon looks at me with wide eyes. I think he understands.

I think we'll keep fucking up, but sometimes we won't.

"I'm sorry for not saying a lot of things, for acting like I didn't care when I did." I tell him, because  _ sometimes we won't _ . I think Simon is crying. No, not crying, but wet.

"I'm sorry for pushing you away." He says. I'm leaning so far in I can feel his shaking breath. 

I take his hand. "I'm sorry I didn't try harder to keep you. I didn't know how." I press my head against his. My nose is splitting against his temple, but touching Simon always did feel like a type of burn. "I didn't think you wanted me anymore." I think I'm saying something for the both of us.

"I never didn't want you." I think he is too.

"Simon," I start, stroking my thumb against his knuckles, "why did you ask to see me tonight, after all this time?" But I think now I know.

I know, I know,  _ I know. _ I still want to hear him say it, because I'm selfish. Because I'm drunk on the words he's never known how to use.

"I missed you. And I've been wanting to tell you those things for months. And I," I feel him shrug, "I dunno. I'm really bad at not thinking about you, I guess."

_ "I don't like thinking." _ he'd once said to me. He  _ thinks _ about  _ me _ .

"And, well, I know I said I wasn't asking you to take me back, but a man can dream."

_ I was yours when you texted me _ . 

I’m crying, too. Wet, hot, like everything between us. I press close until I feel like I can talk again. "You can't just expect me to fall to my knees for you, Simon."

He turns towards me and brushes back my hair. The blood is dried at the tips and his fingers catch in the tangle. "What, don't want a toothless boyfriend?" I think he's smiling.

"What makes you think I don't already have one?" I kiss him again. And again, and again, and again. The first time we ever touched like this it had been him who kissed me. Simon was always the brave one, even when he wasn’t sure I would want him.

I want Simon broken, trying and anything but normal. 

Fresh blood gushes from my nose between our lips. He rubs his hands down my shoulders and arms.

"You're cold as fuck," he says quietly.

"We could wait in the car," I say just as quiet. We've been trading secrets all night and now there's nothing left to say.

Simon kisses the corner of my mouth. “Okay.” 

-

There's nothing left to say, but there's plenty to give. 

Simon is panting into my neck. I haven't touched him in a year, but my body remembers his well. I know he likes when I bite around the apple in his throat. He likes it when I press my hands into his flanks, hard enough to leave bruises. He likes it when I stretch out, open up, and let him give. 

If Simon could float above me and cover my eyes with his hand in these moments, he would. He's never much cared for soft things, but I do.

He sits rigid against the backseat and doesn't touch me. He lets me look at him and he looks at me.

_ "My therapist says our bodies are made of memory. That when something bad happens over and over, our bodies get used to it. That when something good happens, when it feels good, it's scary. Like the first time something bad happened. That our bodies memories can change, if we want them to." _

He told me that when we got back into the car.

_ "I want them to." _

I'm sitting in his lap. I don't kiss him, instead, I follow the sharp edges of his face with my breath. I trace the tips of my fingers over his shoulders, over his pecs, under the edge of his shirt. He's holding his breath. I push my thumb into his belly button, press my cheek against his. He gasps, the tension leaves his stomach.

All the times I've been naked with Simon I've never really known what his body looks like, or how it feels. Not all its creases and tender spots that, when you press into, make him twitch all over.

Simon's body has always said more than his mouth, I think that's why he shut me out.

I scratch my nails back up his sides, rucking his shirt up under his pits. I have an urge to smell him there, so I do. I press my nose under his arm and inhale. His entire body jerks.

"Baz." he sounds choked. It's difficult to smell anything right now, and my nose is aching, but I can taste his musk. The hair is soft. I kiss him there and roll my thumbs over his nipples. When I look back at him his brows are furrowed. His fists are clenched at his sides.

I move to hold his face in my hands. He closes his eyes. I rub the pads of my thumbs against his brows until they smooth. I trace between his eyes, down his nose, against his cupid's bow and between his lips. He sucks my fingers in. I push into the gum where his tooth is missing, to give him something familiar. His leg bounces under me.

I pull one of my fingers out of his mouth so that I can push my hand into his hair. I give his head a gentle tug. He makes a pleased noise, fluttering his eyes open to look at me. My other thumb is still in his mouth, he rolls his tongue around it.

"Do you like that?" I ask. He  _ mhm _ 's around my finger, pushing it almost all the way out before pulling it back in. I close my eyes and just feel. So hot, so wet, so soft. I push more of my fingers into his mouth.

_ He's so soft inside _ , I think. I grip his curls and bob his head over my fingers. He moans. I feel it all the way to my elbow. I look at him. Even in the dark, I can tell his face is red. 

I pull my fingers from his mouth. Spit strings out and catches onto his chin.

When I kiss him it’s messy and slow with lots of tongue. I kiss him like that for a long time, enjoying the noisy smacking of our lips. I lick along his cheek, his ear, his neck, between his pecs, over his nipples, down his ribs. I suck on his hips. He makes lots of heady, needy sounds. He never touches me.

I massage his thighs and watch him from between his legs. He's panting and looking back, half lidded. I lean forward and lick over the bulge at the front of his jeans. His head drops back.

" _ Baz _ ,” he groans. I lick again with the full press of my tongue. His hips lift into my chin. I go lower, to his bollocks, and mouth around them through his trousers. The feel of them against my face goes straight to my cock. I moan and suck until he's grabbing at my shoulders and pulling me up.

Our mouths come together again, sloppier than before. I cup his bulge and squeeze, before opening his fly. He holds on tight to my hips. I press my forehead to his and watch myself pull his cock out. I can't help but sigh feeling it's weight in my hand. It seems heavier and fuller after so long apart, after so long of not touching anyone. It's as hot as a fever. I give him a few slow tugs. Simon hums.

With my forehead still pressed to his I gather as much spit as I can into my mouth and let it drip obscenely onto him. His prick twitches. I rub my palm over the head, spreading around my saliva and his precum until he's slick, and then take him in hand again. Simon breathes through his nose. 

I jerk him off loosely and without rhythm, focused more on feeling his pulse in my palm. I watch him stiffen until he's full mast.

"I love your cock," I tell him, because I do. He grunts and pulls on my belt loops. His hands graze over my own aching cock through my trousers. I slide off his lap. Right now I want him to focus on his own pleasure.

I lean into his side, grip him fully and start jerking in earnest. He shivers when I suck behind his ear.

"I want you to watch, Simon. Are you watching?" I whisper against his neck. I'm watching; I can't stop.

"Yeah." He moans. His hips pump once. 

"I thought about this all the time. I haven't touched anyone else like this since you." 

"Me neither." His head falls forward with the confession. Something heavy in my gut I didn't know I was carrying disappears. 

"I want you to give me all of it. I want all of you." I squeeze him around the base of his dick.

"Okay." It comes out as a loud gasp. He thrusts a second time and then again, and again, and again, until he's fucking my fist fervently. 

One of his hands joins mine around his cock. His head pushes out of the hole we've made, fast and red and wet. His other arm pushes behind my back, looping to pull me close. The sight is enough to make me twist and grind into his hip.

"I love you," I tell him, realizing I hadn't yet. "I love you so much, Simon." I love him for letting me look at him, for finding the words, for taking this.

"Oh." His breath catches, and his hips still. His cock pulses then he's coming. His hand has gone slack, his fingers tangled in mine, but I stroke him through to the end, until he whines soft and spent.

There's a loud knock against the window.

-

The towman keeps giving us sideways looks from driver’s seat. When he’d knocked on the window, Snow screamed and jumped so far out of his skin that he shouldered me in the nose and knocked it the opposite direction.

The poor sod was torn between apologizing to me profusely (“Oh fuck, Baz, I’m so sorry,  _ oh fuck _ .”) and threatening the figure outside the car (puffing his chest, jutting his chin and climbing over the seat, “What the fuck do you want?”).

_ “Simon, your jeans!” _ I had tried to tell him, but it was too late, he was already out of the car and lunging with his dick still out.

_ “Get off of me!” _

_ “How did you find us?” _

_ “Simon, it’s the tow-away!” _

We’re lucky we didn’t get left here. What’s unlucky is standing in the cold covered in blood and cum with an unwavering hard on (I blame months of isolation), trying to persuade the towman to not press assault charges on your idiot boyfriend. 

Is that what we are now? Can it be that easy, after everything?

Simon is sitting in the middle of the cab with his thigh pressed against mine.

When the driver asked where he should drop us Simon gave my address and then looked at me. “To drop the car off,” he said, “and then we can figure out the rest.”

Figuring out the rest seems complicated, but right now  _ this  _ seems easy.

The truck hits a bump and knocks us against each other.

“I didn’t know there was another road out here.” Simon says.

“There’s always another road.” The driver tells him.

Simon squeezes my hand. He’s been holding it the entire time.

  
  



End file.
